


All the Young Dudes: Bootleg Tapes

by MsKingBean89



Series: All the Young Dudes [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-05-13 16:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14752685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsKingBean89/pseuds/MsKingBean89
Summary: A selection of short stories from various points in the 'All the Young Dudes' timeline. From different character POVs.Basically I sometimes write little character studies that turn into longer pieces to help me get into other characters heads (besides Remus). That's what these are. Some of them provide background info for the goings on in All the Young Dudes.





	1. Hope, 1965

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is set six years before the start of All the Young Dudes, so there are no real spoilers, and it can be read at any time. Might pack a bit more of a punch if you're up to date with ATYD though.

_ While I’m far away from you, my baby _

_ I know it’s hard for you, my baby. _

_ Because it’s hard for me my baby _

_ And the darkest hour is just before dawn. _

 

“You’ve never been a very clever girl, Hope.”

“No, mum.” Hope stared into her cup of tea. No milk, just a sunny slice of lemon, served in a proper teacup with a saucer that had a matching roseleaf design. She’d been supposed to receive a similar set when she’d got married, but Lyall hadn’t wanted muggles at the reception.

Her mother tutted loudly.

“I always said he was no good. Man like that - no family, no church. And you never explained exactly what he did for work.”

“He was in local government.” Hope replied. She put the teacup down on the little end table in her mother’s living room. 

“Council?” Her mum asked, brightening a bit, “Well that’s something. Did he leave a pension? Anything at all?”

“A little bit. But I want to keep it by for Remus.”

Her mother tutted again. She thought it was a silly name. Hope had tried to compromise, and given her son her own father’s name too - but Remus John sounded even worse, according to her mother.

Mrs Jenkins preferred to pretend that Hope’s little boy didn’t exist at all, even when he was sleeping in the bedroom upstairs. Hope wanted to go and check on him now - give him a cuddle - but she didn’t dare get up; her mother would call it coddling and Hope didn’t want a fight. He was sleeping a lot - that was probably normal for five year olds. 

But Remus wasn’t a normal five year old, not any more.

A pain struck Hope deep inside her chest; heartbreak. She bowed her head, letting her hair fall forward, closed her eyes and let the tears run past her lashes. She sniffed.  _ I need you, Lyall. How could you do this to me? _

“And what do you plan to do for money? I can’t support you, not at my age.”

“I thought I could go back to the Exchange.” Hope said, barely above a whisper. “Gethin said when I left I could come back if I wanted to. They always need operators.”

“He had a soft spot for you, as I recall.” Her mother said. She sounded thoughtful; she wasn’t really talking to Hope now, she was planning. Hope was familiar enough with the way her mother’s mind worked, always scheming, tidying up and smoothing over. Making corrections. The past six years had been a mistake - soon to be corrected.

This was nothing new to Hope; other people had been making decisions for her all her life. First her mother, who advised her to leave school early and get a job at the Telephone Exchange. Then Lyall, who she had followed into another world entirely. Now he was gone, and it was back to mother.  _ You’ve never been a very clever girl.  _

She hadn’t even been asked about the funeral. It was all taken care of by his people - strange little men in robes who could arrange anything with a wave of their wand. They were very kind to Hope, but they treated her like a child - and a particularly stupid one, at that. One of them took all of Lyall’s things - his books and his wand. She was allowed to keep the house, but was advised to sell it on.

“It’s really a wizard’s house, Mrs Lupin,” they smiled thinly, “Not suited to muggle habitation. Of course, you’re welcome to  _ try… _ ”

But no. The charms Lyall had put in place wouldn’t let her in any more, and anyway, she needed the money. The wizards had a vague interest in Remus, though she’d done her best to keep him hidden from view - Lyall had put the fear of god in her about that. If anyone so much as suspected what had happened to her little boy, they’d take him away and lock him up. 

“Has he shown any magical ability?” One tall, quiet man had asked. He had a long white beard and piercing blue eyes, and Hope was terrified of him.

She nodded,

“He makes all the dinner plates float, sometimes.” She confirmed. 

(She didn’t mention anything else Remus had done. That the first time the change had come over him; the first time her poor baby had been turned inside out by that awful curse, he had been so frightened he’d vanished the door, and Lyall had to barricade him in with the china cabinet in the end. Perhaps that had been the last straw, for Lyall.)

“That’s very good,” The old man smiled, “He’ll receive his Hogwarts letter after his eleventh birthday.”

She hadn’t known what to say to that, but tried to look pleased. Hope wanted Remus to be like his father - better than being like her, anyway - but she couldn’t see how he would ever get into an exclusive school like that, not now. 

“Hope, are you listening to me?” Her mother snapped. Hope blinked, and looked up.

“Sorry, mum.”

“I was asking about the boy. You said you’d made arrangements?”

“Oh. Yes.”

The old man who’d asked about Remus had helped her with that too. He was nice about it. He said it was entirely up to her, but that he knew somebody, if she needed help. Somebody who would be discreet. He put her in touch with a woman called Mrs Orwell, who ran a home for boys. It was in Essex, but maybe Remus would do better if he got his start in England - it wasn’t as if there were any better opportunities in Wales. Hope knew how difficult it was, feeling like an outsider, and Remus would have enough of that already. 

“I’ll take him tomorrow.” Hope said to her mother. “We’ll get the train.”

“Shall I come with you, cariad?” Her mother softened. She always did, when Hope was being obedient. 

Hope shook her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she barely noticed that any more. It was hard to believe she hadn’t shrivelled up like a raisin, all the tears she’d shed lately. Her mother got up and came to sit on the arm of the sofa. She put an arm around Hope and squeezed her gently.

“There there, my love. It’s the right thing. The best thing. You’re young, still, you’ll bounce back. Give it a year or so, and it’ll be as if none of this ever happened, I promise you.”

Hope wiped her eyes and got up, pulling away from her mother.

“I’m going to check on him.”

“I don’t know if that’s wise...”

“I’m going to check on my son, mother.”

She climbed the narrow stairs slowly. Brown carpet, brown wallpaper. Everything felt so mundane, after Lyall. She felt like Judy Garland at the end of the Wizard of Oz - the hurricane had passed, and the world returned to black and white. Hope had never understood why Dorothy was so happy to be home. Who wouldn’t choose colour?

At the top of the dark little landing Hope was presented with three closed doors. Her parents’ room, the bathroom, and her childhood bedroom. Her current bedroom, actually, until she could save up enough for an escape. She thought of Lyall’s money again. No. That wasn’t hers. 

She pushed open the door slowly. It didn’t creak, but the carpet always caught, and made an unpleasant noise if you shoved it. Inside, the thin yellow curtains were drawn, casting everything in a warm buttery glow. 

Her black funeral dress was hung up on the door of the wardrobe. She’d bought it specially, because she’d never owned anything black before, it had cost a fortune. They’d all been in robes, Lyall’s friends, and  _ she  _ had felt like the odd one out. 

It was so strange to be back in this room; everything seemed small and ancient, though in truth it had only been six years since she’d last slept here. Everything was still in its place. Her little white painted wicker dressing table, which probably still had a hidden packet of cigarettes in one of the bottom drawers, along with the lipsticks and eyeshadows she and her father had fought over when she was fifteen. A poster of The Monkees on the wall over the bed, next to an Arthur Rackham print.

Strangest of all was the little boy curled up on the lavender bedspread. Still fast asleep, all golden curls and chubby cheeks and fat little fists. Her heart skipped a beat, as it had from the very first moment she’d held him in her arms. Her baby boy. 

She sat carefully on the bed, and lay down beside him. He stirred a little, yawned and stretched out. She brushed her fingers lightly against his cheek; she loved that perfect baby skin, so soft and unblemished. Except he  _ was  _ blemished, now. A little graze just under his jaw - it could be passed off as just the usual sort of scrape. Children were always bumping into things, falling over. Not Remus. He was such a careful little boy; he watched everything.

She curled her body around his, turning her back on the rest of the room. When Remus was first born, she hadn’t been able to get out of bed for days, but he was such a peaceful little baby, they’d both lain just like this, keeping each other company. Lyall would get in from work and come and join them. He would wrap his own long limbs around Hope, and she would cocoon Remus, and close her eyes and just feel so safe, and so happy.

If only Lyall was here now. It was the touch of him she missed the most. He was so tall, even when Hope wore her highest heels he could rest his chin on the top of her head. The tears stung in her eyes and she lay her hand softly on Remus’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall. 

Sometimes, on those afternoons when the little family lay in bed together, Lyall would sing an old lullaby to Remus. Hope had never heard it before, but she loved the way he sang it; it was the only time you could hear the soft scottish accent in his voice. She hummed a few bars now, wondering if Remus remembered that his daddy had sung for him, and only for him.

 

_ Baloo, my boy, lie still and sleep _

_ It grieves me sore to hear thee weep _

_ If thou'lt be silent I'll be glad _

_ Thy moaning makes my heart full sad. _

_ Baloo, my boy, thy mother's joy _

_ Thy father bred me great annoy _

_ Baloo, baloo, baloo, baloo _

_ Baloo, baloo, lu-li-li-lu. _

 

_ Oh, Lyall Lupin, you bastard.  _ It was an impossible burden, to hate somebody you couldn’t help loving. How could he put her in this position? He must have known she couldn’t do it alone. She wasn’t magic, like him. She wasn’t strong. And she had never been a very clever girl. 

She was crying again, but Hope had learnt to cry without making a sound. Maybe that was just being a mother, though what right she had to that title, she didn’t know. She pulled her son’s warm little body close to hers, not caring if she woke him up. She could feel his tiny heart beating against her own. 

_ Remember this _ , she begged him, silently.  _ I love you, I love you, I love you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song at the beginning is 'Dedicated to the One I Love' by The Mamas & Papas.
> 
> The lullaby is 'Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament', also known as 'Baloo my boy'.


	2. Sirius: 1976

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this is Sirius's PoV on Chapter 86 of All the Young Dudes, 'Sweet Sixteen'. So maybe reread that to refresh your mind?
> 
> It's Remus's birthday and there's a party going on in Gryffindor common room, but Sirius is upstairs in the dorm sulking because he had a fight with Mary earlier that day...

“Come on, mate, it’s Moony’s birthday. Just go down and say you’re sorry so we can all have a good time together.” James said. “It’s a stupid argument anyway.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sirius grumbled. James was always so nice, even when Sirius knew he was being a brat. Mary never let him get away with it, which  just got under his skin even more. He knew he was in the wrong, either way. 

“So you’ll come down?” James said, standing up off the bed, moving towards the door.

“S’pose…” Sirius hated missing a party, but he was also feeling pretty stupid now that he’d made such a fuss. He hadn’t even been there for the ‘surprise’ bit, which was usually his favourite part, and had been his idea in the first place. Better make that up to Moony somehow.

“Come on, Pads,” James coaxed him from the door, “I’m not bringing any more booze up here.”

“ _ Fine _ ,” Sirius got up too.

“Good man,” James clapped him on the back, then headed for the stairs. 

Halfway down the shadowy passageway they bumped into Remus. James went on ahead, but Sirius seized his opportunity to apologise in private. It was so hard to catch Moony on his own these days; he’d become so popular. 

Sirius missed him, a bit. He used to feel like Remus belonged to him, sort of - not in a creepy ownership way, exactly - but he felt he had Remus’s trust, at least. This year, Moony had drifted away a bit, and Sirius wasn’t sure what he’d done. 

“Happy birthday, Moony.” He said, trying to sound cheerful. 

He came down the stairs a bit, so they were eye to eye, and Remus could see that he was really sorry about it.

“Cheers,” Remus smiled at him. Sirius wondered how drunk he was - Moony could put pints away like it was nothing at all, while Sirius himself was a bit of a lightweight. “You er… you ok?”

Trust him to be nice, and to think about others first. On his bloody birthday, too. Guilt threatened to overwhelm Sirius. 

“Yeah, fine.” He said, earnestly. “Sorry if I ruined your party.”

“You didn’t. It’s been great.”

“Good.”

That hung in the air for a bit. Sirius looked down, then up at Remus again.  _ Why  _ had things been so weird between them both lately? They used to get along just as well as he and James did, but something had changed, and Sirius still couldn’t put his finger on it. 

Remus had placed an odd distance between them, so unspoken and so unmoving that it seemed practically physical to Sirius. It made him restless and agitated, like he was missing something he wanted. Though perhaps that was just the fight with Mary.

“James reckons I need to be the one to go and make up with Mary.”

“Probably a good idea.” Remus always said the right thing; you could trust Moony. He wouldn’t always be nice about it, like James, but somehow Sirius didn’t mind getting told off by Moony - he seemed so much more knowledgeable about the world. 

“You think so?”

“Well… yeah? You like Mary, I thought.”

_ Exactly  _ \- Moony was so good at boiling down a problem to its simplest components. If you like someone, you apologise when you upset them. Obviously.

Remus was watching him carefully - Remus was always watching, observing everything. Probably why he was so clever. Sirius met his eyes. It was the closest they’d been since that night in the cupboard. Was Moony still angry about that? Sirius had thought it was funny at the time, a good laugh - but Moony was so  _ touchy _ these days, who knew what he was thinking? James thought it must be all the girl stuff; Moony had never liked talking about personal things, James thought he must fancy one of the girls and be too shy to say anything.

If that was the case, Sirius wished Remus would confide in him - he knew a thing or two about girls, after all. He could  _ help _ . A shiver of excitement ran through him at the thought of this - being the only one who could help Moony.

“I do like Mary.” He said, leaning forward eagerly. Remus had had a bit to drink, maybe he’d relax and open up if Sirius just led him the right way.

“So go and snog her then, silly prat.” Remus replied. Always with the blunt simplicity. 

Sirius had no idea why Remus was shy with girls, his whole vibe was so bloody charming.

“I will,” Sirius said, “I will, in a minute.” He decided to go for it - have it out, once and for all. “Have you ever kissed anyone, Remus?” He asked, casually.

“No, you know I haven’t.” Remus rolled his eyes.

_Ah_ _ha_ Sirius thought, he was trying to act disinterested, but there was clearly something going on there. 

“It’s really not as scary as you think it is.” Sirius said, trying to be encouraging.

Remus was suddenly looking at him strangely, with magnetic intensity - as if he was on the cusp of saying something incredible; something revelatory, and it was just for  _ him _ , Sirius. 

The air thickened, and Remus grasped Sirius, pulling their bodies together, and  _ oh fuck _ , they were kissing! Moony was  _ kissing _ him, and it ...just seemed to make sense. This was always going to happen. He had been waiting for this; he just hadn’t known it.

It was all so good, and Sirius leaned into it eagerly, powerless to resist, he placed his hands on Remus’s hips, because that's what he always did when he was kissing Mary, and then… “ _ Toujours pur, Sirius!” _ an awful screech inside his head, and he pulled away at once, horrified.

Remus blinked at him, looking just as shocked, and that was it, the spell was broken. They both mumbled something meaningless at each other and left in opposite directions. Sirius went down to the party, feeling hot and confused and ashamed. 

Sirius stumbled into the common room, heart thudding. He’d only had a few drinks, but he was lightheaded now, and the noise didn’t help. He blinked, looking about for James - he always looked for James when something big happened, and this was bloody huge - Mary appeared out of nowhere,

“There you are!” She said, hands on her hips. Merlin, she was stunning. A vision in gold and turquoise sequins, the dress so tight it showed off every gorgeous curve.

“Here I am,” he murmured in reply, momentarily dazzled.

“Potter said you had something to tell me?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“Sorry!” He blurted out.

Her lips curled into a smile, and relief flooded through him. She flung her arms around his neck, and he gripped her tightly back, grateful to have someone in his arms. Good. This was normal.

“That’s my lovely boy,” she whispered coyly, pulling him in for a kiss, stroking his hair softly. 

He kissed her back, hard, and forced everything else to the back of his mind. 


	3. Padfoot & Prongs, 1978

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing scene from All the young Dudes Chapter 127: Responsibilities. Probably (definitely) read that first.
> 
> ATYD fans may recall how James found out about Remus and Sirius's relationship, while they were all looking up defence spells in the Hogwarts library. Readers may also remember that Remus promptly fled the scene, leaving Sirius to do the explaining. 
> 
> HERE'S WHAT HAPPENED:

Remus left the library, and for a few moments Sirius felt panic grip his insides.  _ Wait _ , he wanted to say,  _ don’t make me do this alone _ . 

But he knew it was the best thing, deep down. James would appreciate it more. And, after all, Remus had done his bit already.

“ _ Muffliato _ ,” Sirius said quickly - they were in a relatively private part of the library, but better safe than sorry. He tucked his hair behind one ear, and laughed nervously. 

James was still staring. Sirius cleared his throat, needing to break the ice,

“Er… so yeah… it’s exactly what you think it is.”

“You...” James said, his eyebrows creasing together, then smoothing out, as if he wasn’t sure which expression best suited the situation. 

Sirius licked his lips, searching for something to say. This was so frustrating - he and James  _ always  _ knew how to talk to each other. They could share anything - so it had always been.  _ Be brave, _ he told himself,  _ Moony would be brave. Moony wouldn’t think twice. _ And anyway - James wouldn’t be angry. He’d been so kind to Remus, after all. But still he said nothing. 

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Sirius said carefully. “It’s just… er. Finding the right time, you know?”

“We spend every waking moment together, Padfoot.” James said, still looking winded by this revelation. 

_ Oh dear, _ Sirius thought, anxiously.  _ He  _ **_is_ ** _ annoyed. Bollocks. _

“Yeah,” Sirius nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. He felt fidgety and too hot. He tugged at his school tie. “I know.”

“Well. I s’pose not every moment, otherwise I’d have realised.” James said, stonily.

“We were hiding it.” Sirius said, quickly. He didn’t want James thinking he was a bad friend, or neglectful, or any of that bullshit. If anyone was to blame, it was him, Sirius. Maybe Moony too, a little bit, but if anyone was going to get it in the neck, then it ought to be Sirius.

“Pads…” James was saying now, still frowning, “I don’t want to be rude or anything, but… what the  _ fuck _ do you think you’re doing?”

“What?” Sirius looked up at him, taken aback. He’d expected a few different responses, but not that.

“That’s  _ Moony _ . Our best friend, Moony!”

“I know!”

“Remus Lupin!”

“I know his name!” Sirius snapped, getting annoyed now. He couldn’t see what the other boy was getting at, and it felt very unfair for James to be having a go at him like this, when he was just trying to be honest. 

“We’ve spent  _ seven years _ trying to get him to trust us!” James continued, gesturing wildly with his hands as if they were disagreeing on a quidditch play, “He’s literally only just started telling us anything about himself, and you’re going to bugger it all up because you can’t control yourself!”

“Oi!” Sirius growled, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. “That isn’t what this is!”

James scoffed, rolling his eyes,

“Come  _ on _ , Sirius, I know what you’re like! You’re all in, until you get bored. Look, I never said anything when it was Mary - she can take care of herself. Or Emmeline, even though you were a proper bastard to her. Or Avni, or Florence, or anyone else you’ve gone after, but this is too far, even for you, Black.”

“If this is because we’re both--”

“I don’t give a shit about that,” James waved a hand dismissively, “You know I don’t care about that kind of thing. What I  _ care _ about is you acting like you can have anyone, anytime, with no consequences!”

“It hasn’t been that easy, believe me.” Sirius replied, dryly.

“I  _ don’t  _ believe you! If you could just think with your brain instead of your dick for  _ once _ .”

“Piss off, I don’t need this crap.” Sirius returned, “You’re obviously not interested in listening.”

“It’s  _ Moony _ .” James said again, as if Sirius was a particularly stupid first year struggling with a very simple spell.

“Well I thought he looked familiar.” Sirius said, exasperated. “I can’t believe you’re being such a prick about this!”

“I’m trying to talk some sense into you! I know you’ve always been a bit… well, you know. You march to the beat of your own drum, or whatever, but Remus isn’t… he’s not just someone you can try on for a bit, and see if it fits. He needs us. Now more than ever.” 

_ Oh _ , Sirius thought, with a clunk. _ So that’s it _ . They stared at each other a bit longer, hot brown eyes meeting icy blue. Sirius gave in first, because he always did, when it was James. 

“Prongs, I know how it looks, I know what you must think… but I swear it’s not like that. It just happened… and I wanted to tell you, I did, I was going to tell you at Christmas--”

“Christmas?!” James’ eyebrows shot up, “Bloody  _ Christmas?!  _ It’s been going on since--”

“Last summer.” Sirius said quickly, keen to tell the truth now that it was all out. “I mean… some stuff before then, but pretty much.” He hoped he wasn’t blushing. He was still ashamed of the way he’d behaved last year. 

James’s eyes widened and the look of moral outrage did not dissipate. He shook his head,

“I don’t understand you! After everything he’s been through--”

“Look, he did have  _ some _ choice in the matter! You’re acting as if he can’t make decisions for himself, when you know bloody well that no one ever makes Moony do anything, the stubborn git.”

James didn’t have a response to that, but Sirius could see in his face that it had given him pause. Seeing an opportunity, he forged ahead, “This isn’t  _ all _ my fault. Merlin, I thought you’d understand. Or at least been a bit less judgemental - I’ve had to listen to you banging on about Evans for the past five years, and I don’t complain.”

James smirked, despite himself.

“Yeah you do.”

Sirius grinned back, shrugging.

“Ok I do. But you’re not the only one allowed to fall in love.”

“Wait,” James looked up again, frowning, “In  _ love _ ? You’re  _ in love _ with Moony?!”

“That was just an example,” Sirius said hurriedly, backtracking. Bugger, how had that slipped out?! “I just meant… er… we’ve not exactly  _ talked  _ about it… anyway, that’s not my point.”

James’s mouth had fallen open again, but at least he’d stopped frowning.

“Look,” Sirius said, leaning forward on the desk, “I know you care about him. We all do.  _ I _ do. It's not like it was with all those girls, it's… more. It's better. He makes me better, he understands me.”

“Merlin.” James sat down abruptly, staring at the book in front of him. He shook his head, still frowning. But he didn't look angry any more. 

Sirius waited, not sure what else he could say. 

“Sorry.” He tried again. “I don’t know what else to tell you. But I'm not asking your permission, I’m just letting you know. This is how it is.”

James ran his hands through his hair, shaking his head again. He sighed deeply.

“All this reading.” He said. “I need a break.”

“Yeah.” Sirius nodded, keen for a subject change.

“Quidditch pitch?” James finally looked him in the eye. Sirius smiled, relieved.

“Go on then.”

They packed up their things quickly and left the castle. Outside, things felt a bit better. Sirius began to relax. He wondered where Moony was. He couldn’t wait to talk to him; to celebrate the clearing of this final hurdle. He and James got changed into their flying gear in companionable silence. James wasn’t like Remus; you didn’t have to keep prodding and wheedling to get an answer, he either told you what he thought or you could assume everything was fine.

James was ready before he was, and waited in the doorway of the changing block holding both brooms. Sirius came to meet him. It was a perfect clear day, the sky was blue and there was just enough of a nip in the air to keep their senses sharp. 

Sirius accepted his broom from James, and inhaled the fresh air. He looked at James. Once they were up in the air, it would be over; all this discomfort, all the awkwardness. Just one more thing he needed to say.

“Prongs?”

“Yeah, Padfoot?”

“All that stuff you said about Moony?” Sirius looked up at his best friend from behind his hair, “About how he’s only just started trusting us, and how he needs us? That's still true. That's why I really need you need to get used to this, ok Potter? You need to show him everything’s the same.”

James looked at him for a long time, his dark brown eyes still and endless. He nodded.

“Yeah I know. I will. I swear.”


	4. Grant : 1977

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant's PoV on Chapter 118 of All the Young Dudes. Really dark themes guys, please read the chapter notes for content warnings.
> 
> This was requested by a reader :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings on this chapter for: domestic violence, homophobia, dysfunctional families, sexism, sex work, alcohol dependency and transphobia 
> 
> This chapter is set in 1977, and a lot of the views in it are unpleasant.

_ I can't write and I can't sing, I can't do anything _

_ I can't read and I can't spell, I can't even get to hell _

_ I can't love and I can't hate, I can't even hesitate _

_ I can't dance and I can't walk, I can't even try to talk _

 

_ Freddie tried to strangle me with my plastic popper beads. _

_ But I hit him back _

_ With my pet rat _

_ Yeah I hit him back _

_ With my pet rat _

 

“Sandra? Oi, Sandra?”

“It’s fucking Nancy, I told you,” Sandra came to her door, opening it only a crack to scowl at Grant with one cat-like eye. 

“Sorry,” Grant said, clutching his ribs, “Nancy.”

She’d been Sandra for the past two weeks, so who knew what had happened there. Someone had caught up with her, maybe. Or someone new was on her case. He couldn’t ask people stuff like that, for his own sake. Grant had enough shit to deal with. And of course she wanted to be Nancy, all the punk girls did, ever since Sid Vicious started shagging that American tart.

“What d’you want?” She asked, peering at him.

“Got anything to drink?”

She rolled her eyes. Uppity bitch. He wedged the toe of his boot into her door, “You owe me, remember. I ‘elped you move in.”

“I thought you were just being nice.” She sneered. 

“I was.” Grant replied. He gripped the doorframe, feeling woozy with pain. “Now it's your turn to be nice.”

“Prick.” She muttered. She tried to close the door, but he kept his foot in there. Thank god they were steel-capped boots, he could do without any more damage.

Sandra - Nancy - tutted and stepped back from the door. He could hear her digging about in her room. She used to invite him in, but not for weeks now. It was nicer than his room, she had a proper bed set up, and a desk. She told him she was writing a novel, and that she was just ‘experiencing an alternative lifestyle to properly capture the cultural zeitgeist’. That had interested him at first - he liked clever people. But now he was starting to wonder if she wasn’t just another homeless runaway punk. She looked about fourteen, without makeup.

She returned to the door with a bottle. Half a flask of cheap vodka. He snatched it, and she tutted again.

“You look like shit.” She said.

“Cheers.” He unscrewed the cap and drank as much as he could without choking. It was  _ very  _ cheap. Maybe that was good? Maybe that meant it would work quicker, or better?

“Where’s Nick, anyway?” She looked up and down the hall behind Grant, “Why’s he not giving you booze, it’s his fault you’re in this state.”

Grant glared at her.

“‘e’s not coming back.”

“Good.” She replied. “Sick of hearing him bouncing you off the walls.”

Grant drank again. He needed to sit down. He finally relinquished his foothold in the door, and backed away to his own room, keeping one arm against the wall for support.

“Cheers, Nance.” He muttered.

“That’s not medicine, y’know,” she called, “Go to a bloody hospital!”

He slammed his door and locked it tight. Bitch. Why did everyone have to be like that? You couldn’t ever let your guard down, not without someone getting a good kick in. 

He crawled to his mattress on his knees, careful not to lean on anything that hurt too much. His ribs were still sore, two days later, and he really hoped they weren’t broken because that was the last thing he bloody needed. As long as he kept his breathing shallow it wasn’t too bad, anyway. 

He tilted his head back and drank some more vodka, catching himself in the little mirror propped up on the opposite wall. Ugh. He grimaced. He did look like shit. The bruises hardly seemed to be going down; he; needed to get some ice or something. Grant never thought he’d miss being in a Home, but at least you got first aid if you needed it.

He raised his fingers to his cheek, watching his reflection. The bastard, going for his face like that. Grant hadn’t had an enormous amount of respect for Nick to begin with, but that was too bloody far. Lucky he’d kept his teeth.

He ran his tongue over the chipped tooth he’d had for years. It was an incisor, and had been very sharp when it was first broken, but was worn down enough now that usually he barely noticed. He’d sworn that would be the last time he took a punch to the jaw, but you can’t make promises like that, not even to yourself.

Ironically enough he’d got the chipped tooth  _ because  _ he’d been fighting. Last time he’d been living at home, which was - what? Four years ago? He’d already stopped going to school by then, because he couldn’t stick the teachers, or the other kids. Bunking off meant he didn’t have to deal with teachers anymore - but the other kids didn’t forget about him. 

He’d limped home, knuckles throbbing, with a bloody nose and a black eye - his first, if he was remembering right - and feeling weirdly proud of himself, because at least the lads who’d jumped him came off worse. Grandad met him at the door, smoking his pipe. 

“What happened, boy?”

“I got ‘em back.” Grant had sniffed, wiping his nose and getting a dark red stain on his sleeve. “Like you told me.”

“Was it the Jamaican lot?” His grandad asked, removing the pipe from his mouth, folding his beefy arms. He was a little man, but dense and hard, without a speck of warmth.

“No.” Grant said. “Irish.”  

He ought to have just lied. But something in Grant always made him say the wrong thing. Grandad’s face turned, his mouth a long hard line of disgust. The king of Kilburn High Road had a reputation to maintain; he didn’t need the local kids beating up his grandson.

Grant looked over his grandad’s shoulder, to see if his mum was nearby. Not that she was usually much help, but it was generally better to have a witness. He couldn’t see her.

“Look at me, boy.” Grandad boomed, bending down close, so that Grant could smell the acrid tobacco on his breath, count every silver bristle on his unshaved chin. He braced himself, and looked his grandfather in the eye. “Why are ye fighting with Irish boys?”

“They don’t like me. I’ve told ya.”

Grandad reached out with his hard, bony fingers and pinched Grant’s ear, twisting it hard so that Grant yelped and squirmed, trying to get away.

“Less of the mouth and stop eyein’ ‘round fer ye ma,” Grandad shouted, right in his face, so close now that flecks of spit landed on Grant’s cheek. “Don’t think I haven’t heard what they’ve been saying about you, so you best wind yer fucking neck in before I smash your face through the back of yer bastard head!”

“Let me go--” BAM.

He remembered a little bit after that. Sitting in the bathroom snivelling while his mum dabbed at his swollen face with a wet flannel. Cutting his tongue on the razor sharp edge of his broken tooth.

“Honestly,” his mother sighed wearily, “I don’t know why you keep getting in his way.”

Stupid woman. She knew herself that even if you were quiet, and did everything he wanted, you’d still end up battered somehow, and it would still be all your fault. 

So Grant had left, as soon as he’d seen an opportunity, and vowed never to let anyone put a hand on him again. And then there was Nick, and now here he was, staring at his own reflection and gulping down vodka like a proper little alkie.  

Nick hadn’t even been good looking. He hadn’t even been  _ nice _ . He was just older than Grant, and harder, and bigger. He’d had a bit of an edge, something dangerous that was attractive at first. Until you realised what the real danger was. Grant had been a bit slow on the uptake there; he was man enough to admit it. His own fault for drinking too much and taking too many pills and not getting enough daylight. 

The first time it happened, he came up with a plan - save up his money, get out, as far away as possible. But he needed to acquire money, somehow, and there were only a few options when you had no fixed address. He’d called in every debt he could, and survived ok on handouts for a while - though people were getting sick of that; he hadn’t had a proper meal for a few days now. 

Getting drink was never hard. As long as he looked clean enough and young enough, Grant just had to show up in the right sort of bar and have his tab paid for all night long. And if someone wanted something extra, and they were willing to pay, then it was no skin off his nose. Five minutes in the loos and an unpleasant aftertaste wasn’t too much to put up with, and he always set boundaries.

Then Nick had found out, and far from being angry, he’d encouraged it. He decided he deserved a cut, too, until Grant wasn’t really making money for himself anymore. And two days ago, Nick had left for good, leaving Grant with two broken ribs and a face full of bruises as a parting gift.

He finished the vodka, and licked the inside of the cap, just to be sure.

Sick of feeling sorry for himself, Grant sat up, pulling himself out of the mirror’s sight. His torso still felt tender, but the pain had lessened. The drink worked. He had to get more. He had to get up and get dressed and go out; he needed money. Nevermind the train fare he’d been saving up for; he needed to eat something soon. 

There was a t-shirt in his bag that wasn’t as filthy as the rest, but he found he couldn’t get it on. Actually, it was more that he couldn’t get the one he was wearing off; it hurt too much to raise his arms. Fine. He gave up. His boots took a while to lace too, he had to keep stopping for breathers. Tears pricked in his eyes, and he scrubbed at his face wildly. It was just the pain, not anything else. He couldn’t let it be anything else. It would be ok. Everything would be ok. He just had to push through it.

The face was still a problem. Hard to be charming when you looked like you’d just gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali. Sandra - Nancy - might lend him a bit of cover-up, but he quickly dismissed this idea. It would be ten times worse if he got caught alone somewhere with makeup on. 

He decided to head for the nearest peep show cinema. They were nice and dark, and the films usually did half the work for him. There was one only a few streets away, which took Grant a good twenty minutes to get to. Even then he had to find a way to sneak in, because no way was he spending any money on it.

The darkness was something of a relief after the busy west London street. It was quiet, too, except for the film, which must have just started because most of the actors still had their clothes on. Grant sat at the back for a little while, to recover from the journey, and to scope out the clientele. 

They were all the usual types. Late fifties. Raincoats. A few of them balding. A familiar queasiness rose up in Grant as he prepared himself for the challenge. Honestly, and people had the gall to call  _ him  _ a pervert. 

The first actress got her tits out and Grant peered around. A bit more shuffling about, a few of them fumbling in their laps. He got up and sauntered down the aisle, casually, coughing a bit so they knew he was there. Most of them ignored him, fixed on the dollybird on screen. A few of them gave him a longer look than they knew they ought to. He picked one, and went to sit just a few seats away from him.

It was a game, like fishing - though to be honest Grant had never been fishing. You had to pretend you weren’t up for anything, because otherwise they got too nervy and backed off. He watched the film for a bit, stretching out as far as his various injuries would allow, letting his fair hair catch the light from the projector. The girl in the picture was blonde too, which might work in his favour. She had horrible lipstick on, pinky-orange and garish, forming an ugly wide ‘O’ as she moaned and whimpered. 

The man who’d been watching him moved, now sitting right beside him. He stank of pipe tobacco, and Grant almost threw up. 

“How much?”

Grant turned his head and smiled coyly.

* * *

He needed to get really drunk. Oh jesus christ, he needed to get so absolutely twatted that he wouldn’t be able to see clearly for days. Fuck the train fare, fuck Brighton, fuck a broken heart. Grant staggered from the back doors of the cinema feeling worse than he had ever felt.

_ When you’re at the bottom, no one can hear you shouting. _ That was something Nick liked to say. Justified everything he did, somehow, being ‘marginalised’. 

Grant felt like saying ‘I can bloody hear you.’ But there was no point trying to be smart.

He found an off-licence and bought a bottle of gin and a packet of fags, then he sat on the kerb for a bit trying to get his head together. His mind wandered, he wondered how things were going in the old squat out in Mile End. That place had lost its charm over the winter - they struggled to keep warm, lots of them left, and then Charlie F, who’d been gone a few days, turned up dead in the canal at Bethnal Green. That had really put a damper on things. Lizzie, who’d been seeing Charlie a bit on the side, slit her wrists - she came back from it, but nothing was the same. 

Adz had started taking speed and that was the last straw for Grant. He never thought he’d end up back in West London. Once or twice he’d thought he’d seen Grandad, and it had sent him underground for days. 

Grant shook his head, making his sore eye throb, then swigged some gin. Had to stop thinking about Grandad. And Nick. And Adz. And that man in the cinema. God, every fucking man he’d ever met had ruined some part of him.

Except Remus.

Grant blinked, staring at the pavement. That was weird; why would he think of Remus? He’d spent half a year trying to  _ forget _ about Remus, and Grant was a champion at forgetting painful things.

Maybe that was the problem. Remus wasn’t painful. Remus was soft and sweet and gentle and shy. He hadn’t even broken Grant’s heart. 

But it was no good thinking that way. Remus was a million miles away; safe in his fancy school for adorable boffins. 

Grant liked to think about it like that; that Remus was safe. They’d never really gone into it, but Grant had a feeling that Remus had suffered just as much as he had. It was nice to know that one of them was getting a good deal; being looked after.

Grant didn’t need looking after, but he could definitely see the benefits. 

A policeman on the beat came strolling down the road, and Grant hauled himself up as quickly as he could, shoving the gin bottle into his back pocket. He’d spent nights in cells before, and it was never much fun. He lit a cigarette and started walking - they’d nick you for the smallest thing, even loitering, so it was better just to keep moving.

He thought about going back to his room for a sleep. He had a bit of cash now, and enough booze to knock himself out. He wasn’t even that hungry anymore. He reached inside his jeans pocket instinctively for his keys.

Fuck.

They weren’t there. Grant bit his lip, hard, to stop himself from screaming. They must have fallen out in the theatre - and he could hardly go back now. Fuck.

He kept walking, clenching his fists furiously, mad enough to spit. Just one day. Just one bloody day without a disaster, that's all he asked. 

He could sleep rough - he’d done that a few times and at least it was warm out. He could go back and see if Sandra/Nancy would let him stay with her. Not likely after he’d been so rude, but she might take pity.

The thing was, now he was drunk and pissed off. If he went back to the squat then he’d only get restless and lairy and start a fight or try to shag someone. 

No, he decided, the thing to do was to keep moving. There was a bar not too far away which he’d had a bit of luck at before - pickpocketing mostly. Anyway the music was loud and he might get another drink. It was growing dark now, so it had to be after eight o’clock. 

It took him a long time to get there; he might have got lost a few times. Things looked the same, and he kept losing bits of time; like sleepwalking. In fact he didn’t even realise he was outside the bloody place until someone yelled at him.

A group of blokes were standing outside, trying to look threatening. It worked. They all looked a bit like Nick - bulky and baldheaded.

Grant tried to sidle past them quickly, but he was too obvious about it.

“Orright Lola?” One of the bigger men said. They all cackled like a bunch of old ladies hanging out washing. Grant sneered. Wasn’t even an original fucking joke, he’d been called Lola by various tossers ever since that bloody Kinks song.

_ Well I'm not the world's most masculine man/But I know what I am and I'm glad I'm a man/And so is Lola... _

Very fucking funny, that. And it didn’t even make sense, because Grant never did drag; he liked being a bloke. (Ok, he’d tried on a dress once, as a laugh, but that didn’t count) He supposed you could get called worse things.

He ducked his head and started down the stairs. Inside it stank of fags and beer and BO. Fucking punks. Still, it was dark and anonymous and no one looked at him.

The band was loud and ugly and awful. They all looked about sixteen, in ripped drainpipe jeans and denim jackets covered in patches and safety pins. When had rock singers stopped being sexy?

Things got very wobbly after that. He definitely drank beer, but god only knew where it came from. He might have danced a bit, he might have talked to someone. Suddenly he was squinting in the dank light of the bathroom, being yanked up by the elbow and dragged through the bar by the bouncer.

He tripped and stumbled up the stairs, twisting his ankle, but the man dragging him didn’t care. He gave him a final shove, once they were at street level.

“Sling yer ‘ook ya fucking nancy boy!”

Well. He had no idea what he’d done, but he knew when he’d overstayed his welcome. He bent his head again, hands in his pockets, and walked away quickly. Christ, he was pissed; the pavement warped and rocked in front of him. He felt queasy, there was a sick taste in his mouth, but he had nothing inside him to throw up.

“Grant!” Someone shouted his name.

His first instinct was to keep walking; ignore it. Because it couldn’t be a good thing; someone around here knowing his name. It wasn’t like he had any friends. But the footsteps behind him got louder, and the threat grew closer and he was too pissed and too battered to run. He turned around - might as well get a good look before they did whatever they were going to do.

Whoever it was, they were bigger than him - tall but not brawny. There was a streetlight behind them, so it took a moment for Grant’s eyes to adjust, vision blurring wildly. Those curls. That look of anxious concern. Those lovely pink lips. Remus bloody Lupin.

* * *

Grant rarely thought about feelings. At least the feelings he had. He’d spent so much of his life butting up against everything everybody  _ else _ thought about him, that he rarely bothered with introspection.

But he was ashamed of the way he acted, that night. The thing was; Remus was the very last person in the world he expected to see. And as soon as Grant clapped eyes on him under that golden yellow street light, he felt so incredibly relieved that it shocked him. Grant was not a religious person - fuck that bollocks - but in the depths of his addled state, Remus Lupin looked just like a bloody angel.

And then very quickly, Grant’s relief washed away, and was replaced by utter shame. Here was this kind and sensitive boy, who had always looked up to him. And now what was he? He couldn’t even stand up straight.

Oh Jesus, and  _ Sirius _ (honestly, what kind of mad hippie name was that?!) lurking behind Remus the whole time, gorgeous as a film star and reeking of money and privilege. Maybe it would have been alright if it was just Remus, but Grant could not help but see himself as Sirius must; completely pathetic.

So he was rude. He couldn’t remember everything he’d said, but he remembered being a pain in the arse. And Remus just took it and fed him because Remus was just lovely like that.

Somehow they’d both got him back to his room, and maybe they’d picked the lock or he’d forgotten to lock it in the first place, but when Grant woke up he was safe and comfortable on his mattress. He frowned and blinked, the room felt warmer than usual. Despite the memories from the night before rushing back to him like a horrible disaster film trailer, he felt weirdly better. His face wasn’t hot and tight, and it didn’t hurt to breathe. He wasn’t hungry. He was relaxed for the first time In weeks.

Turning his head, he caught sight of Remus and Sirius, sleeping in the opposite corner. God. They were both so beautiful, like a pair of statues. Peaceful and young and in love. Grant felt a dreadful pang. His ribs had stopped hurting, but his heart was still a blister in his chest.

Remus began to stir, slowly. Grant watched him, feeling the buzz of excitement in his spine that he always got when he was about to talk to Remus.

Remus’s nose wrinkled, then he opened his eyes. They fell on Grant almost at once, and Grant smiled.

“Morning.” He mouthed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics are X-ray Spex
> 
> I feel so bad about this chapter! I promise a fluffy one next!


	5. Sirius: Valentine's Day 1978

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another missing scene for you guys :) Intended to be read after All the Young Dudes Chapter 134: Seventh Year - Valentine's Day 1978.
> 
> Gets a bit sexy at the end but nothing explicit.

Monday 13th February 1978

“Cheers for all the help,” James said, getting up and stretching. They’d been bent over spellbooks for hours now, and if Potter didn’t do some form of exercise at least twice a day then the world as they knew it would come to an end. Probably.

“Well,” Sirius replied, “Wouldn’t do to have Evans disappointed, and I know you couldn’t have done it without me. ”

“Such a modest and generous friend you are.”

“It’s called good breeding, Potter, look it up.”

James snorted with laughter, still stretching. He groaned, “Quidditch pitch?”

“Yeah, go on. Need to be back by five, though.”

“Moony?”

“Yep.” Sirius pressed his lips together at this. Something inside him still winced when James mentioned Remus in  _ that  _ context. Obviously it was great that James knew. Obviously. But it was also weird, and scary. The worst part was that he knew James felt awkward too, and that was why he kept bringing it up. The silly sod was trying to be a good friend. 

“Are er… are you two doing something for Valentine’s Day?” James asked.

He looked uncomfortable. Perhaps because it had only just occurred to him to ask, after Sirius had spent three hours helping him perfecting the floral fireworks charm for Lily. 

“Nah.” Sirius shook his head. “He hates that sort of thing.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah. Remember the Great Snogging Race? Remus Lupin and romance do  _ not _ go together.”

“I just assumed his snogging-aversion was because he’s… um…”

“Queer?”

“Mm. Is that the right word?”

Sirius shrugged, and they made their way to the quidditch pitch in comfortable silence. 

The truth was that Sirius had no idea whether or not it was the right word - but it was the one Moony used, so he supposed it was ok. Sirius had already decided not to think too hard about specific words, or definitions, because he didn’t like the way it felt.

Probably for the same reason he shut down whenever James tried to talk to him about his relationship with Remus. Sirius clearly remembered telling James every gory detail about his various dalliances with girls - what went where, for how long, how hard, how fast, how good, how big, how small. Not with Moony. In fact, as far as James knew, they barely even snogged. Sirius felt a flutter of heat in his belly then, thinking about snogging Remus. 

Anyway, what exactly would they  _ do  _ on Valentine’s Day? It’s not like they could do a big public display, as James was prone to. And cards? Poetry?? No way - Remus would either laugh in his face, or die of embarrassment. 

Secretly, Sirius thought Remus was too cool for Valentine’s Day stuff. Remus wasn’t flowers and ballads; he was stolen cigarettes and torn up jeans, he was  _ punk _ . 

...though, to be fair, he  _ did  _ like chocolate…

“Wakey wakey, Black.” James rapped him on the back of his head with his broom handle.

“Oi!” Sirius rubbed his scalp, though it hadn't really hurt. He tied his hair back quickly and followed his friend out onto the pitch.

* * *

Later that evening, when the girls were in their room the subject of Valentine’s day was broached, and Remus reacted exactly as Sirius expected him to. That was very pleasing; he was finally getting the hang of Moony.

Anyway, Remus was right in the middle of planning a giant prank, which was Sirius’s absolute favourite version of him. He was so direct and authoritative; ordering everyone about, head held high, gaze intense. And then he started smoking and that always got Sirius right _ there _ , because of his bloody perfect lips and his delicate fingers and his eyes...

He couldn’t wait for bed, and luckily the girls left quickly after that. Prongs and Evans made a big show, as usual, kissing and whispering and carrying on like they were being separated for eternity, not just a few hours of sleep. Sirius caught Remus watching them, and for the millionth time wondered what Moony was thinking.

By the time Sirius was ready for bed, Remus had come over all quiet and thoughtful, and Sirius couldn’t tell whether he was just tired, concentrating on the prank, or if it was something else altogether. 

Whatever it was, Sirius only made it worse. He put his foot in it with the Lupercalia thing, and he didn’t know why. Honestly, it was hard to keep up, sometimes. One day Remus was perfectly amenable to discussing his wolfiness. Other days it was completely taboo, and he’d shut down at the slightest mention.

They sort of worked it out between them - they were getting slightly better at that, picking at each other until they understood. Anyway, it turned out that Remus was  _ actually  _ worried about all the Valentine’s Day nonsense - not because he  _ did _ want a song and dance, but because he thought  _ Sirius  _ might. 

This was so incredibly sweet that Sirius couldn’t stop smiling, and had to start snogging Remus just so he didn’t see Sirius’s dopey grin.

* * *

Tuesday 14th February 1978

In truth, Sirius hadn’t really thought about it that much. Public displays of affection, that is. At least, he hadn’t thought about it beyond whatever Remus’s needs and preferences were. It had been the same with Mary - she loved snogging in public, she loved getting caught and showing off; so Sirius had loved it too. Conversely, Remus had always liked hiding and keeping secrets, and Sirius was learning that that could be a lot of fun on its own.

Maybe Sirius was just easy going about affection. Or maybe he was too much of a people pleaser. It did grate a _ tiny _ bit, when Lily and James spent hours curled up in each others laps in the common room, or walked hand in hand between lessons, beaming at each other, while other students had to dodge out of their way. Obviously he and Moony were never going to be  _ that  _ couple, not in public, but it was pretty tiring having to remember to keep things platonic outside of the dorm room. After all, Sirius liked showing off. He’d like to show off Moony.

He thought about it as he and James snuck down to the dining hall to prepare Lily’s present, early in the morning. He’d left Moony sleeping, sheets wound around his waist, one arm over his head, head tilted up. In the morning light his scars were like veins in marble, and Sirius wanted to bend down and trace them with his tongue. He didn’t. He’d made a promise to James.

“Think there’s going to be enough room?” James asked, as the entered the empty Great Hall. “Don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“They’re floral fireworks,” Sirius yawned, “No one’s getting hurt unless they’re severely allergic.”

“Bugger, I hadn’t even thought about allergies!”

“Merlin, don’t tell me you’re going to change your mind now, not after you dragged me out of bed at this ungodly hour.”

“I’m not, I’m not… come on, let’s do it, then.”

They began to busy themselves, planting the large bulb-shaped detonators they had painstakingly constructed, and setting the trigger charms so they’d go off at the right time.

“What are you doing for the rest of the day?” Sirius asked, sitting on one of the tables swinging his legs as he watched James fuss over the final touches. “Or d’you reckon that cat’s enough?”

“She’s got most of the day free and I’ve arranged for the Prefect’s bathroom to be mysteriously closed for repairs,” James smirked, pleased with himself.

“How romantic.” Sirius drawled.

“It is, actually,” James replied. “What about you? Still steering clear of Moony?”

“Eh?”

“The fight, last night?”

“That wasn’t a  _ fight _ .” Sirius felt his cheeks heat up. He’d forgotten that Prongs had overheard that part. “We made up, anyway. Just did a silencing spell so  _ you’d _ stop eavesdropping.”

“Oh, is that what it was for…?” James raised a cocky eyebrow, tongue playing the the corner of his mouth,

“Piss off,” Sirius shoved him, hopping off the table. “Mr Prefect’s Bathroom.”

“Godric, Black, are you blushing?! Are you actually blushing??” James laughed, shoving him back. “Wow, Moony must be something else.”

“I can’t believe you…” Sirius shook his head, beginning to walk out of the hall, willing his face to return to its usual colour. How embarrassing. 

“Oh, come on now,” James laughed, jogging lightly to catch him up, “You know, I’m actually relieved. You two act like butter wouldn’t melt, most of the time, I’ve never even seen you kiss.”

He said ‘kiss’ and not ‘snog’, because James Potter was a romantic through and through. He probably called shagging ‘lovemaking’. Ha. Sirius made a note to remember that for later. 

“Do you think that’s weird?” Sirius asked, slowing down. He could really do with some sensible advice, and Prongs would have to do if Lily wasn’t around. “That you haven’t. Er. Seen us? Kissing, I mean.”

James shrugged, “I dunno. You do kiss, don’t you?”

“Obviously,” Sirius tossed his hair,

“Well then. I just assumed it was Moony being his awkward self.”

“Yeah, it is. But y’know… we can’t be as public as you and Evans.”

James was quite for a long time, thinking. “No,” he said, finally, “That makes sense. Sorry, mate.”

“Not your fault.” Sirius shrugged.

“You should feel comfortable around us, though.” James said. “We’re your friends.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I mean, comfortable  _ within reason _ ,” James said, hurriedly, the smirk returning to his features, “I dunno if I’m quite ready to see my best mates doing… er… well, if you even… I mean… whatever it is you…”

“Potter, are  _ you _ blushing?!”

* * *

The fireworks and the kitten were extremely well received, of course, but Sirius got a surprise of his own after breakfast. Remus Lupin  _ actually  _ suggested bunking off a lesson and getting stoned instead. Well, maybe the getting stoned part wasn’t so out of character, but skiving definitely was. And a chocolate frog, to boot! That had to be romance, Remus giving away the last of his sweets.

“Prongs is going to have such a go at me for smoking here,” Sirius giggled, halfway through the first spliff,

“Nah,” Remus replied, lazily, lying on his side and stroking Sirius’s trousered leg. “Just wave a wet towel around and it gets rid of the smell. S’what the lads at St Eddy’s did,”

“Cool.” Sirius breathed, in awe. Remus gave him a funny look which told him he was being weird. But he didn’t care. If thinking Moony was cool was weird, then Sirius was weird. He giggled again. Remus smiled, shaking his head and taking the spliff, 

“Lightweight.”

“Such disdain. Such cruelty.” Sirius flopped back on the bed and loosened his tie. 

“You love it.” Remus exhaled smoke, so that it washed over Sirius’s body like fog. 

“Oi,” Sirius looked down, frowning, “Don’t do that, my uniform’s going to stink.”

“Take it off, then.” Remus raised an eyebrow. Sirius looked at him,

“Really?”

Remus raised the spliff to his lips again, and sucked. Those lips. Those fingers. Those eyes. He nodded, exhaling, “Unless you think you’re going to lessons today?”

Sirius shook his head, speechless. Remus sat up on his knees and reached across Sirius with his long arms to stub out the spliff in the mug of old tea on the bedside table. Sirius closed his eyes, already wanting to feel Remus - the weight of him, the heat of him. 

It had never been like this with Mary, or Emmeline. No one had ever made him feel like this; like he could be taken apart and put back together again, new and better than before. So what if Moony wasn’t affectionate in public? As long as he was like this in private.

“Come on, then,” Remus was saying now, a harder edge to his voice, “Haven’t got all day.”

Sirius moved fast - Remus wasn’t really in any hurry, it was just that Sirius never refused an order if it was given in the right way. He pulled off his tie, then unbuttoned his shirt, fast. Trousers he left up to Moony, because that was Moony’s favourite bit, and Sirius liked watching his long fingers working the clasp of his belt.

Remus was on top on him now, straddling his body and leaning forward, kissing him hard, moving his hips ever so gently back and forth, just enough to be infuriating. “Moony…” Sirius rasped, against his lips, “Please…”

That was enough – that was always enough. Remus growled and quickened his movements, pressing down harder, practically biting at Sirius’s lips.

Sirius moaned, ecstatic – there it was; that need, that furious power. He was not ashamed to admit that Remus’s strength, his ability to completely disarm and overwhelm, was one of his most powerful attractions. Being wanted – needed – by Remus was intoxicating. He frantically tried to keep up with the new pace, grinding his own hips fervently. 

“Mmph,” Remus murmured, suddenly pulling away, His lips were dark and his eyes were dark and Sirius reached up for him, feverish with desire,

“Come ba-ack...”

“Door-” Remus mumbled, glancing sideways, “Curtains - Prongs…”

“He’ll be gone all day,” Sirius shook his head, unfastening the buttons on Remus’s shirt, pulling him back down, “I promise, he told me, it’s fine…”

“Bloody love Valentine’s day,” Remus grinned, resuming kissing.

_ I bloody love you _ , Sirius thought, out of nowhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe have one of these left in me, from another character's perspective (one we've not heard from yet). Guess who and you get 10 points :p


	6. Daddy, why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BIG TRIGGER WARNINGS  
> \- Child abuse/child sexual abuse and neglect  
> \- Violence, gore, murder  
> \- Sex worker slur
> 
> This isn't a very nice episode at all. Please read at your own risk and skip it if you're not in the right mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've used lyrics from the song 'Daddy' by Hotel Lux throughout this piece. 
> 
> Go and look it up, they are an amazing band and I love them.

_ Daddy was a bad guy, he didn’t know his limits. _

_ I tried to fight him off, but size always wins. _

_ Daddy was a bad guy, his hands upon my thigh, _

_ I said, “I don’t like it!” and continued to cry. _

  
  


1941

“Up you get, runt.” Daddy grabbed him under the armpit with one rough heavy hand, lifting him painfully up onto his feet. “Breakfast!”

Fenrir stumbled a bit, sleepy and confused, but quickly kicked into gear. He was only eight, but mornings were automatic by now. He hurried over to the stove, and fumbled with the matches to light a fire. He couldn’t wait until he could use magic. 

Stove heating up, he went outside to see if the chickens had laid. Daddy slapped him around the back of the head on his way out. Not for any reason, really, except that Fenrir usually deserved it. The frozen ground stung his bare feet, but he didn’t complain - you mustn’t  _ ever  _ complain to Daddy. 

Their caravan was smaller from the outside, and a bit worse for wear, but Fenrir loved it. His mother had painted it in bright gypsy colours, too many years ago. It was deep maroon with a green cylinder roof and big yellow wheels. There were daisies painted on the door which were beginning to fade. Fenrir often thought he would like to re-paint it, make it as beautiful as it had been when Mummy was with them - but that would probably just make Daddy angry. He didn’t like to be reminded.

There were three eggs in the henhouse, which was good, because it meant Fenrir would probably get one. He cradled them carefully in cupped hands, carrying them back inside.

There was a fresh wolf pelt stretched out on the rack leaning against the side of the caravan. A kill. Daddy would be in a good mood, then, he’d probably been paid.

Back in the caravan, Daddy was sitting in his chair, picking mud off his boots. His clothes smelled bad, Fenrir knew he would have to wash them later. Last night was the full moon, and as he’d been successful, Fenrir supposed they would be moving on quite soon. Time to start tracking another monster.

The last place they stayed, the villagers never gave Daddy his money - they said werewolves weren’t real, after all, that Daddy had tricked them; he’d just hunted down a regular wolf. Daddy had been furious, and Fenrir got the worst of it. His shoulder still popped out sometimes.

He was quite proud of his daddy, who was strong and fierce and brave. But he was scared of him, too. Daddy wanted Fenrir to be fierce and strong too - that’s why he gave him his name - but Fenrir was a runt, and a disappointment. One day he might get big, and one day he would know magic, but until then he had learnt it was better to be good and do as he was told.

He cooked their breakfast, and Daddy started drinking. Fenrir winced. Maybe it wasn’t going to be a good day.

They ate quietly, Daddy on the bed, wiping his greasy hands on the sheets, heavy fingerprints on his whisky bottle. Fenrir sat cross legged on the floor, trying to blend in with the furniture. If he stayed small, maybe this time he wouldn’t notice, maybe he wouldn’t…

“Runt.” Daddy said, pushing his empty plate aside. “Get up.”

Fenrir hadn’t finished eating, but he stood up sharply. There was a penalty, if you were too slow. His father shifted back on the bed, to make room. Fenrir began to retreat inside his head. If he had enough time, he could get a long, long way away without Daddy ever noticing. He could leave his body there, and it wouldn’t matter so much, you just had to learn to shut down the hurting parts. 

Daddy patted the bed. “Come here.”

_ I hate you. _ Fenrir thought, as he approached,  _ I hate you I hate you I hate you. _

* * *

_ Daddy was a bad guy, his hands around my neck, _

_ I said, “I don’t like it!” - I had nothing left, _

_ Daddy was a bad guy, his fucking filthy hands, _

_ Oh daddy, I just don’t understand why _

_ You’re such a fucking bad guy. _

 

1948

They were in Scotland when it happened, and the daisies on the caravan doors had long peeled away, revealing rotten splintered wood beneath. At fifteen, Fenrir was almost as tall and as broad as Daddy, from a lifetime of chopping wood and hauling the caravan, and fighting off anyone who tried to get too close.

Daddy was getting smaller, the drinking had reduced him to a shrivelled, bitter shell of the goliath he had once been. He’d lost his hair and had sores on his mouth. Fenrir did most of the hunting, by then, he was a quick learner. They would go out together in the nights preceding the full moon, and Fenrir’s senses grew sharper as he tracked; he grew familiar with the forests and fields and furrows of Britain, the magic in the soil and the danger in the trees.

He did not go to school. There was a letter when he turned eleven, but Daddy burnt it, and two days later handed him a wand. 

“You’ll get the hang of it.” He said, “Or you won’t. Either way.”

These were the only instructions Fenrir was ever given. Still, he found a way. Whenever they passed through magical villages, Fenrir stole books on magic, and in this way he taught himself. Sometimes he read other kinds of books too, and when he did he felt less alone. It was a small kind of freedom, and another escape route in his mind. By the time he was in his mid-teens, Fenrir knew how to defend himself, and Daddy finally stopped interfering with him. Mostly.

He stayed with his father, though, out of some twisted loyalty perhaps. He had nowhere else to go, he knew no other wizards. He had no trade, no skills except hunting and killing and skinning. Still, he was well travelled, and having moved from place to place, having watched the lives of others at a distance, Fenrir had come to the conclusion that he had no real place in the world. 

That night in Scotland Daddy was drunk. He was almost always drunk, but not usually on full moons. Fenrir was irritated, they had been tracking the wolf for the better part of three days through a boggy wetland. The places these creatures chose to live were always foul, always remote and unwelcoming. Fenrir was tired, his boots had leaked and his socks squelched, cold and sore. And Daddy was  _ drunk _ . He made too much noise, he stumbled, he could barely see things right in front of his face.

“Just stay here,” Fenrir pleaded, as the beast howled nearby. They were very close. They stood at the edge of a thicket, looking out onto the moor, the full moon bright and round as a silver coin, “Just wait here quietly and I’ll go--”

“Shut your gob,” Daddy slurred, slapping him around the head, “Yer not a hunter yet, yer still my apprentice, don’t you forget it, runt.”

“Let me go alone,” Fenrir said, calmly, “Let me kill this one. I’ll make you proud.”

“Pah!” Daddy laughed cruelly, “The day you make me proud I’ll drop dead from shock. Now move yer arse.” He shoved Fenrir forward, towards the edge of the moor.

Exposed, Fenrir crouched low, staring out across the darkened hillsides, looking for signs of a predator. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, he cocked his head to listen, he thought he could hear it breathing, stalking towards them through the long grass.

“Can’t see a bastard thing,” Daddy muttered loudly. He was breathing heavily too, wheezing, and kept glugging from his flask, making a sloshing noise. 

“Shh!” Fenrir hissed desperately, clutching his wand.

“Don’t shush me you dirty little--” Daddy ranted, but it was too late - the wolf lunged out of nowhere, running towards them snarling, mouth foaming, eyes glowing gold.

Fenrir dived in front of his father, pushing him back, and it was just in time, no sooner had his father scrambled back into the thicket, than the wolf was on top of Fenrir, its giant paws pressing down on his shoulders, as big as a lion’s, its hot breath in his hair as he squeezed his eyes tight.

Daddy was nowhere to be seen. Fenrir heard a faraway ‘crack’ of disapparition and silently cursed his father as he prepared for the worst. 

It would be an end to fifteen years of misery. He comforted himself with that thought as the wolf’s jaws closed around his middle.

* * *

If it was peace Fenrir was after, then his luck was out. To his surprise and terror, he awoke with the dawn, and found he was not dead. He was lying on his back on soft leaf litter at the mouth of a large cave. Weak sunlight poured over him, and frost touched the branches of the overhanging trees, but he wasn't cold. He was covered in a blanket, and a fire was blazing beside him, crackling softly. He tried to sit up, but pain rocketed through him, and he cried out, tears springing in his eyes. His entire torso burned and he remembered those giant yellow teeth.

“Try to rest.” A voice said.

Fenrir craned his neck and saw a man sitting across from him. He was long legged, gangly, and had coarse grey hair pulled back in a long plait, a scruffy beard and intense dark eyes. 

“What happened?” Fenrir tried to sit up again, but almost screamed with the pain of it, and lay back down, gritting his teeth.  _ It’s only pain, _ he told himself, _ just ignore it. _

“Sorry about that,” the man nodded at him, “I tried to be gentle but I got a bit overexcited.” 

“You! You’re the wolf!”

“Aye.”

“You bit me!”

“Aye, I did, lad. You might thank me.”

“Thank you?!” Fenrir glared at him, “I’ll kill you!”

The man laughed, “Ah, you will not. Give it time. You may grow to like your new situation in life.”

“You’ve ended my life.” Fenrir replied, staring up at the cave walls despondent. “You don’t know who my father is.”

“Coileán Greyback? Every wolf in Britain knows who he is. In Europe, even. Time was, he was famous, we were afraid of him. These days, not so much. I heard he had a boy with him - you’re his son, you say?”

Fenrir didn’t respond. 

“Aye,” the werewolf nodded, “Aye, you have the look of him. You could be twice the man he is, you know. I can smell your magic and it’s…” he inhaled the air lasciviously, grinning, showing broken bloody teeth, “Delicious.”

Fenrir still didn’t say anything. Why didn’t the wolf just kill him? He’d rather be dead. What did he have, now? Where could he go?

“Obviously doesn’t think much of you,” the wolf said, “Your old man. Ran off pretty quick.”

Fenrir closed his eyes, and the wolf did not bother him again.

 

_ Hereditary madness passed from dad to dad. _

_ It’s hard to know who to blame when I see him so sad. _

_ A life of constant battle within his own mind _

_ But why must I pay the price for how he’s so inclined? _

 

He lay there for days, unable to move, too weak, too broken. The werewolf fed him, kept him warm, even cleaned him, much to Fenrir’s shame. Nobody had ever treated his body with such care before; such kindness. Nobody had ever been so gentle - except perhaps his mother, who Fenrir could not remember.

On the fourth day, the wolf pulled back his bandages to show how well the bite was healing. The deep red marks puckered his skin, but there was no more bleeding or scabbing at all, and the pain had all but gone. He still felt feverish, his body reacting to the curse now rushing through his blood, adapting to the pull of the moon. Colours were starting to seem brighter, noises sharper and scents stronger - and though he was too exhausted to move, he still felt restless and unsettled all over. 

“Why didn’t you kill me?” He asked, finally, as the man ground a healing poultice in a mortar.

“Why would I kill you?” The wolf laughed.

“I’ve killed werewolves, you know. Twenty or so. Hunted them, and skinned them, sold their pelts.”

“Aye, that’s how I know you deserve this.”

“So it’s a punishment.”

“It’s a gift. You’ll see. You can still hunt. You were an apprentice before, but I’ll make you the greatest hunter ever known. Children will cower in their beds at the very thought of you.”

“You’re mad.”

“I am, yes.”

“What’s in this for you?” Fenrir raised his head. He was stripped to the waist, so that the wolf could work on his wounds. He had lain there, vulnerable and unable to defend himself for days, and he had slept frequently, but still this man had not touched him except to tend to his injuries. Fenrir didn’t know when it was coming, but he knew it was.

“Nothing.” The man said.

Fenrir narrowed his eyes, “Everyone wants something.”

The man paused, and stopped his work. He rocked back on his knees and looked Fenrir in the eye. “I had a boy, once.” He said. “I loved him dearly. I’d have done anything to keep him safe, but in the end it was out of my control.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Nothing to do with you. Everything to do with Coileán.”

“My dad?”

“Aye. I’ve been watching you, since you arrived in these parts. Been watching him. I’ve seen it all, the drinking, the cruelty. He doesn’t treat you like a father should. There’s no excuse for what he’s done to you. A father protects his children, always.”

Fenrir felt such a strange mix of emotions at that. Shame, because shame was always at the forefront. But other things too. Gratitude, relief… and rage. 

Lots of rage.

* * *

Fenrir was well again by the time the full moon recurred. His attacker - or his saviour, he did not know which - had taught him much in the meantime. He already knew how to survive harsh conditions, how to fend for himself and feed himself. But the wolf taught him everything else; how to channel his magic, how to draw it out from the environment and feel it grow within himself, how to push it out and make it do what he wanted.

He felt stronger, healthier than ever before. For the first time in his life, he felt in control. And then the moon came, and  _ oh! _

It was the most beautiful night of his life; he would forever consider it a perfect memory, completely precious to him. The transformation was difficult, but he knew how to deal with pain, and when the beast reared up inside him, bursting forth, he felt reborn; a creature of nature, of the woods, of flesh and blood and darkness. They hunted together, wild and ravenous. He tasted human blood. He finally knew joy. 

“You were right,” he gasped as the sun rose and his limbs retracted, “It is a gift!”

“That’s my boy,” the werewolf smiled at him, tiredly. He reached out a bloody hand, and Fenrir grasped it. They poured their energy into each other and were healed.

“I want to go back,” Fenrir moaned, grieving the loss of his true body; a body that was untouched and pure, “Can’t we stay that way? Isn’t there magic?”

“Maybe one day,” the werewolf laughed. “You don’t wish I’d killed you, then?”

“No.” Fenrir shook his head, giddy with adrenaline,  “I can never repay you for what you’ve done. Thank you, thank you...”

“Wait until you find yourself a pack,” the werewolf smirked, “Oh what fun you’ll have, Fenrir Greyback.”

* * *

_ He says that he loves me, but I know he don’t _

_ As he lays in a pile of his blood. _

_ He says that he loves me, but I know he don’t _

_ As he lays in a pile of his blood. _

 

_ I might feel unwanted, I might feel alone _

_ The torture will last no more. _

_ Oh battered and broken he lies on the floor, _

_ The torture will last no more. _

 

He could have returned to his father as the wolf. It would have been easiest, quickest, and probably the most frightening way to do it. But Fenrir wanted Daddy to know who killed him. He wanted to do it as a man.

He went alone.

The caravan was still in its clearing. The chickens looked thin and underfed, probably because Fenrir was the one who usually took care of them. He could smell his father even at a distance - the filthy sweat, the reek of booze, his sour breath. And magic, metallic, cloying and warm. Fenrir drank it in as he approached.

He stood in the doorway. His father lay snoring on the dirty bed sheets, glistening with greasy sweat, a bottle clutched in one clawed hand. Fenrir rapped his knuckles against the wooden door with the daisies painted on. Daddy stirred, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

“Runt?” He rasped, “That you?”

“It’s me.”

“Thought you were dead.”

“So did I.”

“Made it back though, eh? Good lad.”

Fenrir inclined his head, “Are you proud of me?”

“What? Shut yer face. Get me my breakfast then come and tell me where you’ve been.”

“No.” Fenrir said. “I won’t be staying.”

“What are ye talking about? This is yer home! I’m yer daddy!”

“No.” Fenrir shook his head. 

Coileán Greyback was an abusive old drunk, but he was not a complete idiot. As his fifteen year old son walked towards him, his eyes widened as he recognised the glint in his eye, the scars that crossed his face.

“You! You’re one of them!” He pointed a trembling finger. “You’re a beast! I ought to…” he scrambled for his wand on the bed, but Fenrir knew exactly what to do. He raised his hand, turning his wrist, and his father’s arm twisted backwards, a delicious cracking sound filling the caravan as the bones broke like twigs. Daddy screamed and Fenrir felt a shudder of pleasure. 

“Filth!” The old man was wailing, as Fenrir advanced, “Dirty, unclean--”

“Quiet.” Fenrir raised his hand again and this time struck his father across the face, as hard as he could. He was so strong now, he would never be held down again. 

Coileán Greyback spat out a tooth. Another ripple of pleasure, Fenrir clasped his hands around his father’s neck. 

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

* * *

_ Oh daddy, why are you so bad? _

_ Oh daddy, why are you so bad? _

_ Oh daddy, why are you so bad? _

 

_ Oh daddy, oh daddy, oh daddy - why _

_ Are you _

_ so  _

_ fucking  _

_ bad? _

 

1977

He spent a few more years with the werewolf who turned him, until his death in the bitter cold winter of 1960. After that Fenrir lost his purpose a little. They had hunted together for years, all over Europe, tearing a path of fury and destruction. But all good things came to an end. 

Fenrir’s grief surprised him. He had come to see the werewolf not only as his saviour, but as his true father. He was a man who understood struggle and torment, and who wanted to save others from such misery. 

So why not honour his memory? 

The notion occured to Greyback one dark morning. He was lonely, and wolves were not meant to be alone. How many children were there in the world who had grown up like him, neglected, mistreated, starving for love? He could save them. He could protect them. And none of them would ever be alone again.

Livia was his first and perhaps greatest triumph. Her mother, a muggle whore, was more interested in getting her next fix than her big-eyed waif of a daughter. Fenrir caught the scent of the child’s magic from five streets away, and he watched them for days. 

When the moon came he crept in through the window and ripped the mother’s throat out. The toddler played with the warm blood like it was finger-paint, and Greyback knew he has chosen wisely. He turned her that very moment.

He treasured her, and he spoiled her; his little princess, his alpha bitch. She grew so strong and so beautiful. There were others, all gorgeous in their own ways, all powerful and fierce and loyal, but none compared to Livia. As the years passed, his own children went on to turn others - that was the way of things, he could not refuse them their independence. And they always come home when he calls them. 

Well. Most of them.

And now there’s a war on, and while Greyback has little interest in the affairs of wizard-kind he is not averse to a bit of extra violence on the side, providing it pays well. He is proud of his family, he wants the world to see them in all their glory. If the Dark Lord has an outlet, then all the better.

He knows what they say about him. Those who would call him a monster. He isn’t stupid. Sometimes he thinks they might be right; sometimes he wonders if he is mad. But if he is, then it isn’t his fault.

He’s not so bad, really. He takes care of his children, he acts in their best interests, he keeps them in line. That’s all a father can do, in the end. 

 


End file.
